


All Those Little Things

by the23rdspectacledone



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, dunno if i'll add him in later chapters, fluck? what the fuck is that?, fluffy as fluck, he and anthea are bffs too, im shit at summarys, like just an implication that Q is their little brother, like really fluffy, oh and mentions of bondlock, oh and mycroft nearly gets blown up btw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:46:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the23rdspectacledone/pseuds/the23rdspectacledone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft nearly got blown up. Greg gets concerned. Fluff ensues (maybe).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was supposed to be a quiet afternoon that day; the stacks of paperwork on his desk were starting to shrink by the time it hit four, and he decided he could retire to the Diogenes Club for some afternoon tea.

He never thought that this would happen.

Mycroft stared blankly ahead as he was seated on the steps of an ambulance, his eyes roaming over the dying flames that engulfed the building he was in. Despite the heat that was radiating from the burning building, he was still shivering violently, very much grateful for the orange felt blanket wrapped around him.

He could hear policemen and firemen shouting out orders –some of them actually storming into the burning building with the bomb squads to see if anyone else was there. But Mycroft tuned all that out. He knew there were others in the building. He hoped that maybe some of his workers got out.

A shuddering breath escaped him as he thought about what happened again. All he wanted was a cuppa –maybe even some cake if he wanted to cheat on his “diet”. But no. Someone had to bomb the bloody building.

“You alright there, mate?”

The auburn-haired man startled out of his thoughts at the sound of that voice. _That voice_. He looked up, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of DI Lestrade.

“I…I am coping, thank you,” he mumbled, trying on a faint smile.

The DI’s brows furrowed, his eyes roaming over Mycroft. “Shouldn’t they be taking you to the hospital?” he asked, concern showing in his eyes. That surprised Mycroft a bit.

He shrugged, hiding his wince as the burns on his shoulders, where a burning pillar hit him, rubbed against the blanket. The bandages weren’t much help. “I-I’m fine. I just…I need to know if my PA got ou–”

The politician cut himself off when his eyes landed on the entrance of the building, a silent gasp escaping his lips when he saw the lithe form of Anthea (Or Annette; he wasn’t sure what she was calling herself these days) between two firemen, limping toward them. She was still conscious, obviously trying to fight off the two men supporting her. Mycroft could read her lips, her words going the line of: “Let me go” “I need to find Mycroft”

A warm smile curled his lips when Anthea’s eyes landed on him, her posture relaxing as she took in his lack (not visible, anyway) of injuries. She let the two firemen guide her towards the ambulance where Mycroft was. And, as soon as they let her go and the medic team finished bandaging her, she rounded on the quiet DI.

“Why wasn’t he taken to the hospital?” she demanded, her eyes flashing at the silver-haired man.

Greg’s eyes widened minutely, holding up his hands, as if in surrender. “Well,” he mused, “I’ve heard from the medics that he wouldn’t relent to going to the hospital until they’ve found you, so…”

Mycroft winced when Anthea turned to look at him, eyes narrowed. “Why?” she asked, concern and anger on her face, both showing at the same time. “I know you’ve got some burns hidden under that blanket.”

“I am fine, Anthea,” Mycroft smiled, “I just needed to know you were safe,” he shrugged, wincing again. He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the pain, and looked back up at his friend. “What about you…?” he asked quietly, “Are you alright…?”

The young woman nodded, “I haven’t got any burns. A bit of cuts, though, from the broken glass flying around.”

The politician gave a quiet sigh, letting his head hang as his shoulders slumped in relief. “Please take me to the hospital now…” he murmured softly, closing his eyes, his consciousness slowly slipping away from him.

He heard a faint “Mycroft!” in the background, before eventually blacking out.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A quiet groan escaped Mycroft’s lips when he came to, his eyes immediately squeezing tight when he opened them. The room was far too bright, far too many _lights_.

“Mr. Holmes…?”

Mycroft’s eyes shot open, his head turning to look at where the voice had come from. Detective Inspector Lestrade. His eyes roamed over the silver-haired man, his brows furrowing at his obvious lack of checked button-down and cotton-twill trousers. Instead, the DI was wearing jeans, a grey jumper. Casual. Charming.

“Detective Inspector,” he murmured, his voice rasped, “What are you doing here…?” He gave up trying to sit up, his body still weak. His icy-blue eyes roamed over Greg again, taking in everything he can. Slight stiffness in his neck, his clothes wrinkled on his back and behind his knees, a slight five o’clock shadow lining his jaw and cheeks.

He shifted his gaze toward the plush armchair behind Greg, the one near the window. There was a pillow, a wrinkled blanket. Various files and papers were scattered on the small side-table.

The younger man’s eyes widened minutely as realisation dawned on him. “You slept here,” he said; not a question, but a statement.

The silver-haired man scratched his head, obviously trying to come up with what to say. After a few more seconds, he just sighed, nodding. “Yeah, I did,” he mumbled quietly, looking almost –shy? What?

“Do you mind me asking ‘why’?”

“Well…” Greg mused, “Your PA was s’posed to stay here with you, but she remembered that there won’t be anyone else to go to your meetings while you’re recovering. She suggested that I get Sherlock to stay, but…” he paused a moment, before sighing. “He refused even before I explained the situation.”

Mycroft sighed quietly. He expected no less from Sherlock. Of course he would refuse to take care of his older brother. He was never one for babysitting.

But despite his slight sadness at Sherlock’s obvious lack sympathy, he was still a bit happy. Most likely because Gregory, the man he’s had a crush on for more than a few years now, decided to stay with him instead.

He didn’t know what to say –which was a first for the elder Holmes. All he could think of saying was, “Thank you, Detective Inspector…”

The older man just shrugged, walking a bit nearer to Mycroft. He smiled down at him, his gaze soft. “Don’t mention it. And call me Greg if you want. I don’t mind.”

The politician just nodded, smiling in return. But it faltered a bit when he felt the pain-relievers start to wear off, the pain of his burns returning. He tried to keep his face neutral, but Greg caught on quickly.

He took the pills and a glass of water with a straw from the side table, holding them up to Mycroft. “Take it. It’ll help with the pain.”

“Thank you…” he mumbled softly before popping the pills into his mouth, taking a sip of water. The pain-relievers he took were quick, the pain slowly disappearing after a few seconds. Mycroft sighed in relief as Greg took the glass from him, settling back on the bed and closing his eyes.

It was silent for a while; the auburn-haired man just laying there with his eyes closed, and Greg sitting back at the armchair as he sorted through some files. It was…weird. Yes, Mycroft _did_ like Greg, but he didn’t really know him, aside from the necessary information he usually takes from people who get involved with Sherlock for more than a day.

Now that he thought about it…he didn’t really know what the DI was _like_ to be with. Peeling one eye open, he glanced at the older man. Greg was arranging the papers, stacking them neatly, before placing them inside a folder on the side table. He stood, flicking on the small table lamp, before going to turn off the lights, and then sat back down on the armchair.

The silver-haired man sighed and slumped down on the chair, his head falling back as he closed his eyes. “I know you’re awake, Mr. Holmes…” he murmured, his eyes still closed and a tired smile on his lips.

Mycroft could feel the blush creep up his neck and cheeks. “You know you may call me by my first name…if that is acceptable to you,” he said quietly, both eyes now open and head turned to look at Greg properly.

“Can’t sleep…Mycroft?” Greg asked, raising his head to look at the younger man. That tired smile was still on his face.

“I seem to be rather…restless,” he mumbled, smiling a bit at the use of his first name, “Though I _have_ been sleeping for the past…” he trailed off, something clicking in his head. “How long have I been asleep?” he asked suddenly.

“It’s been a day since you passed out.”

The politician’s eyes widened. “I’ve been sleeping for twenty-four hours? Really?”

The DI nodded, “Yeah. Was a bit worried–” his chin tipped up, toward the ceiling, his voice thinning out until it’s barely audible, “…might’ve been in a coma,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes hard. Mycroft thinks it’s adorable, the way he does it.

“I…appreciate your concern…” Mycroft hesitated a little, a faint blush on his cheeks, before he said, “…Gregory.”

Greg blinked owlishly at Mycroft, before a broad grin formed on his lips. “Seriously,” he chuckled, “Can’t you just call me Greg? Only my mum calls me ‘Gregory’.”

The blush on Mycroft’s cheeks darkened as he turned his head, looking anywhere but Greg. “Would you prefer it…?” he asked quietly. He still can’t believe how much just being with Greg makes him this...sheepish. If any of his colleagues saw him now, they’d think he was pathetic.

“You can call me what you like,” he shrugged, “I don’t mind.”

“I find that I like how ‘Gregory’ feels on my tongue…”

Now it was Greg’s turn to blush. No one ever said that about his name except Mycroft, and he feels strangely happy about that. Just as he was about to say something, he heard Mycroft’s stomach rumble. A small silence surrounded them for a few seconds, before Greg burst out laughing, Mycroft now flushed red.

“Shut up,” Mycroft grumbled, pouting at the older man as he laughed.

When Greg calmed down a bit, he grinned at Mycroft. “Yeah, yeah” he chuckled, his grin replaced by a warm smile that made Mycroft’s insides melt. He stood up, walking toward the door as he shouldered on his jacket. “I’ll get us some dinner,” he said, “Just wait for me, yeah?”

The auburn-haired man just nodded, watching as Greg looked around for his wallet, before walking toward the door. He glanced over his shoulder, smiling. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he said, and then exited the room.

Mycroft stared at the door as it was closed, still unable to believe his luck.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“I am fine, Gregory…honestly.”

Greg ignored Mycroft’s statement as he helped him put on his shirt, the auburn-haired man wincing as the bandages were disturbed. “I’d be far more convinced if you hadn’t winced like that…” he murmured, briefly glancing up at Mycroft as he did the buttons on his shirt.

It was like this the whole two weeks Greg was looking after Mycroft. It was weird for the younger man at first, suddenly having the dishy DI catering to his every need, but then he got used to it. Although Greg was sometimes far too helpful, Mycroft, unsurprisingly, didn’t mind.

And that just showed how much their relationship changed in the past two weeks; from ‘professional-acquaintances’ to ‘slightly-more-friendly-acquaintance’ to ‘friends’ in just the period of two weeks. Mycroft stopped blushing every time the DI bought him food, only smiling fondly at the older man. He stopped blushing every time he called Greg by name, now finding that saying the name was as natural as breathing.

He now found that he liked seeing Greg there when he woke up, his face all soft and adorable with sleep. He found that he liked watching Greg as he worked, humming under his breath, and sometimes even bobbing his head to whatever song he decided to hum that day. He found that he liked talking to Greg and hearing his voice. He found that he liked hearing and making the older man laugh. He found that he liked it when the older man smiled, his insides all growing warm and fluffy whenever he did.

He found that he didn’t just like Greg anymore, he had started to _fancy_ him.

Which, in a way, was a bit of a problem now that Mycroft thought about it. ‘ _He’s straight, for fuck’s sake…_ ’

“Could you at least let me do up my own buttons…?” he asked, his tone soft as he watched Greg do up the last button.

Greg straightened Mycroft’s collar, before looking up at him with a grin. “I already did it, so it’s a bit late to ask,” he chuckled, running a hand through his hair and grinning.

“Stop coddling me, Gregory,” Mycroft said jokingly, shrugging on his jacket, deciding to forgo the waistcoat. He winced again, but managed to hide it when Greg turned to look at him.

The older man handed him his tie, and then watched as he did it up, slightly fascinated. “How the hell can you do it so perfectly without looking at a mirror?” he asked suddenly, hand coming up to poke at the knot.

Mycroft wanted to shrug, but thought better of it, knowing it would just aggravate his burns. So he just smiled and changed the subject. “Have you called Anthea?”

Greg didn’t say anything as he shrugged on his own jacket. “Yeah,” he nodded, “Said she’ll come ‘round in an hour to pick us up…” he turned to look at Mycroft, that worried expression back on his face. “Now are you sure about this…?” he asked quietly, “I mean…you haven’t fully recovered. Are you sure going back to work is such a good idea…?”

“I’m sure,” Mycroft nodded, sitting down in Greg’s armchair. “It won’t do to have me away for so long. Especially now…” his voice trailed off, nearly mentioning something about the sudden disappearances of his counterparts.

Greg just stared at Mycroft, before sighing. If Mycroft was anything like his younger brother, he knew he wouldn’t be able to dissuade him. “Right,” he cleared his throat, moving toward the door.  He glanced behind his shoulder. “Want me to get you some breakfast?” the DI asked, “I’m a bit peckish me-self, so…”

“A coffee would be sufficient, thank you,” the younger man smiled as he brought out his Blackberry, his eyes widening slightly at the text he received from his youngest brother.

_I’ve heard about the disappearances. I think I can help. –Q_

Mycroft sighed quietly, closing his eyes, and letting his head fall back and rest on the chair’s back. Quentin was actually offering to help _him_. ‘ _I need to get out of here…_ ’


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hey look! I actually updated something! Yay for me.
> 
> [btw, so sorry that it took me a long time to update this. i was stuck in the last part for a while because i couldn't think of a thing for Greg to cook and then i was sorta stuck on the dialogue as well and maybe a bit of the plot too but hey at least i actually did something right?]

**Chapter 2**

“ _What_?”

Mycroft stared wide-eyed at his assistant, Anthea, standing just at the door of his hospital room. He simply _cannot_ believe the words that had just left her. Even Greg was gaping at her.

“Please tell me you’re joking…”

“Unfortunately, sir,” Anthea said as she typed away on her Blackberry, “I’m not. It’s just for two more weeks, and th–”

“C-can’t I just get a new house?” Mycroft cut her off, “Surely I can do that, yes?”

Anthea thought for a few seconds, and then nodded. “Yes. But you may still be able to go back to your old house, and looking for another place with your exact specifications will take weeks more. Your brother’s just doing some security updates,” she said, finally looking up at her boss and shrugging. “Apparently, that bomb at the Diogenes was aimed at you. They still haven’t caught the bomber, so it’s most likely that they will strike again.”

“So what’s this about having to stay with me for two more weeks?” Greg asked, his arms crossed over his chest and eyes narrowed.

“We can’t let Mycroft stay anywhere the perpetrator would think he’d be,” the brunette glanced at the DI, before looking back at Mycroft. “I’d suggest that you go back to your old family home, or maybe one of your vacation houses, but they might think of striking there as well.” She paused a moment and then sighed. “It’s either him,” she jerked a thumb in Greg’s direction, “Or 221b. And I don’t think Sherlock would relent to enduring you for two whole weeks.”

Greg just watched the two as they talked, a curious look on his face. Mycroft’s PA, Anthea –or whatever her name was- didn’t talk to him like she was a worker…no, it was clear that she was more than that when the Diogenes Club was attacked. Mycroft actually refused to be taken to the hospital until they found her. Until he saw that she was alright. Something clicked in Greg’s head.

“Are you two lovers?” he asked suddenly, the other two looking at him with wide eyes. He felt something vaguely like jealousy clutch his chesr, but he ignored it.

A small silence surrounded them, Anthea and Mycroft just staring at Greg with wide eyes, their faces blank. Greg was starting to think that maybe he shouldn’t have asked; maybe no one was supposed to find out. Maybe–

“ _Us_? _Lovers_?” Anthea laughed, bending nearly double as she clutched her stomach, laughing. Mycroft was shaking with laughter just beside her. They just laughed for a good minute or two, Greg watching in confusion.

When Mycroft finally calmed down, he sighed and straightened himself. “Heavens no,” he shook his head and glanced at Anthea, before shaking his head again, negating it twice. “She’s just a good friend of mine.”

“ ‘Just a good friend’? Really, Mikey, you wound me,” she pouted, her arms crossed over her chest. Her pout was quickly replaced by a grin when Mycroft looked at her and arched a brow at her. “What? A ‘good friend’ isn’t the same as a ‘best friend’!”

Mycroft just rolled his eyes at her, before looking back at Greg with a smile. “We’re not lovers, I assure you.”

Greg was pretty sure he felt relief wash over him, but he ignored that as well. ‘ _No point in voicing it anyway,_ ’ he thought to himself, smiling back at the politician and his PA. “Anyway,” he said, “I don’t mind you staying in my flat.”

That made Mycroft look at him with wide eyes, and Anthea smirk. “I-I wouldn’t want to be an imposition, Greg–”

“I’ll bring his stuff over tonight,” Anthea interrupted, grinning broadly as she edged toward the door, but wincing slightly when Mycroft glared at her, “So…I’ll wait for you guys in the car-park, yeah?” And with that, she left the room, Mycroft still glaring at the door.

Mycroft turned to look at Greg, a faint blush on his cheeks. “Gregory…you know you do not have to do this. I-I could just look for a temporary flat or stay at a hotel for the time being…”

“Myc, I said it’s alright,” Greg repeated, “And besides, if you stay in my flat, I can look after you,” a smirk crossed at his lips, “If you’re anything like Sherlock, God knows you need looking after.”

Mycroft just looked at Greg, his gaze soft as he looked him over, still unable to understand why a man like Gregory Lestrade would worry about him so much.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“I don’t see why you’re pissed at me!”

John looked up from his laptop as Sherlock entered the sitting room, his face a mixture of confusion and annoyance. When John asked who it was, the dark-haired detective mouthed “Piecroft” at him.

“Look, shouldn’t you be _thanking_ me?” Sherlock hissed at his phone, stalking over to the sofa and then plopping down on it. “Thanks to me,” he continued, “You get to spend two more weeks with Lestrade. I've just given you more quality time with your goldfish.”

John’s eyebrows went up, an amused smile curling on his lips as he listened to the conversation. ‘ _So the British Government fancies the Detective Inspector as well…interesting._ ”

“And it’s rather stupid of you to even _think_ about getting a new flat, or renting out a hotel. They’ll figure it out, and then bomb you again. No, it’s better if you stay with the last person they’d ever suspect you staying with.”

Sherlock looked just about ready to shout again, but his face immediately softened, his anger dying down a little. John raised a brow at that.

“Yes,” Sherlock said quietly, nodding, “He contacted me as well. It must be rather serious if he’s asking for my help…No; he hasn’t shown up on my doorstep. I heard that he was updating the security at your flat, yes?” Sherlock paused a moment, a smirk ghosting his lips, “Huh. That’s rather surprising; the British Government isn’t sure about something. Alright, I’ll try to find out what he’s doing, but…!” the younger Holmes grinned broadly, “You gotta say ‘thank you’. What for? Obviously.”

John just watched as a small smile of satisfaction formed on his roommate’s lips, curiosity finally gripping him when Sherlock hung up. “What was that about?”

Sherlock looked up at John. “Mycroft is staying over at Lestrade’s for two weeks,” he said simply.

“Yeah, I got that much from your side of the conversation. Why’s he mad, though? I thought he liked Greg?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock shrugged, stretching out on the sofa, his shirt riding up a little bit. John couldn’t help but run his eyes over the small patch of pale skin. “I would guess that it has something to do with the fancy he has for the clueless DI.”

“He still doesn’t know that Greg fancies him too, yeah?” John asked, a bit of amusement in his tone.

Sherlock huffed a laugh and shook his head, taking a book from under the sofa and flipping it open. “Obviously not. Else he would’ve tried to get into Lestrade’s trousers by now.”

John just chuckled and went back to his blog.

After a few seconds though, he couldn’t help but ask.

“Sherlock?”

“Mm?” the detective hummed, not looking up from what he was reading.

John hesitated a moment, but continued, “Who was that…‘he’ you and Mycroft were talking about?”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Mycroft sighed quietly as he plopped down on his desk, his eyes starting to feel heavy with sleep. It was already late, and he just got through with the thick stack of paperwork that had accumulated on his desk because of the two weeks he had been gone. He really didn’t mind going home for the day.

But, unfortunately, he couldn’t go home. Not while that bloody bomber was still on the loose.

‘ _I swear, when they find that bastard, I’ll kill him myself,_ ’ he thought to himself, groaning softly when he felt the pain relievers start to wear off.

“Sir?”

 Mycroft startled out of his thoughts, looking up from his desk to see Anthea typing away on her Blackberry. “What is it, dear…?” he asked quietly.

“You should go home, sir. It’s late, and you’re still weak from your burns–”

“I have no home to go home to.”

“Gregory’s!” she sighed, “You’re going to stay with Gregory, remember?”

The politician stared at her, his eyes weary. “You were actually serious about that?”

“Yes,” she said, finally looking up from her mobile. “It’s too late to back out now, sir. I’ve already brought in your stuff.”

“Andrea–”

“Don’t fight me, Mycroft,” she warned, pointing a finger at him, “We can’t leave you somewhere where the bombers will think to look, alright?”

They were silent for a few minutes, but eventually, Mycroft gave a resigned sigh. “Fine, fine…” he grumbled, slumping down on his chair and pouting.

Anthea just rolled her eyes and exited the room.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

He entered Greg’s flat quietly, making sure he made little noise since he thought that the silver-haired man was probably in bed by this time. But Mycroft stopped dead in his tracks when he entered the sitting room, his eyes drawn to the figure lying on the couch.

Greg was still in his work clothes, on his stomach on the sofa as he snored softly. His features were soft with sleep, his lips parted slightly, and his silver hair an artful mess. Mycroft was sure he felt a slight tug in his stomach at the sight.

Approaching quietly, Mycroft hovered over the sofa, his eyes slowly scanning over the older man. The deductions immediately popped into his head.

‘ _Got home around one. Just finished a case which involved a great deal of running around London, no doubt with Sherlock, and had suffered an unexpected soak in the Thames. Took a shower at the Yard, and was lent clothes by a fellow officer, who was obviously smaller than him, considering his clothes are far too tight for work. Finished the paperwork that accumulated on his desk before he went home. Barely made it to the bedroom before he fell asleep._ ’

He had started to slowly back away from the sofa when Greg started to stir in his sleep, his eyes fluttering open. Mycroft registered it late that he was hovering over Greg, his face just a foot away from the DI’s.

“Mycroft…?” Greg mumbled sleepily, staring up at Mycroft with half-lidded eyes. Mycroft just managed a faint smile at the older man. The DI smiled back at him before sitting up, yawning and stretching.

“I apologise if I disturbed you from your sleep…”

“S’alright, you didn’t wake me,” Greg murmured, yawning again, before running a hand through his hair. “What time did you get here…?” he asked a bit sleepily.

Mycroft shuffled nervously on his feet, fidgeting with his umbrella in front of him. “I just got here…”

Greg blinked sleepily at Mycroft and nodded. “Right…I’ll show you to the bedroom. Anthea already placed your stuff in there, so…”

“I see…” Mycroft mumbled, and then frowned after a moment. “Wait…you’ve only got one bedroom, yes?”

“Yeah…” Greg said slowly, “Why?”

“Where are you going to sleep?”

“Well…I’m kipping here on the sofa.”

“Gregory…” Mycroft sighed, shaking his head. “Honestly. Just letting me stay here is a huge favour. Surely letting me sleep on your bed while you’re on the sofa is–”

The silver-haired man raised a hand, making Mycroft shut up. A soft smile was on his lips. “Again, it’s alright, Myc,” he chuckled, “And it’s not like I’ll let you sleep on the sofa; especially not while you’re recovering from your burns.”

Well. The notion of sleeping on a soft bed rather than the leathery surface of the sofa _did_ sound appealing…and then the fact that he would be sleeping on _Gregory’s_ bed…

As soon as Greg saw Mycroft start to work up an argument, he shook his head, grasping his upper arms carefully to avoid the burns, and turned him towards the bedroom. “Rest now; argue with me later.”

Mycroft barely had time to talk when he suddenly found himself in Gregory’s bedroom, his face flushing a bit. And just when he thought that things couldn’t get worse –or better, depending on your viewpoint- Greg started slipping Mycroft’s jacket off his shoulders, and then went to unbutton his shirt.

The politician knew that Greg was just trying to help him get out of his clothes, and Greg often did that when they were back at the hospital, but being in Greg’s bedroom, their surroundings dark…Mycroft couldn’t help but think about it in another context.

Of course, he wouldn’t say anything about that; Greg might get suspicious. And the last thing Mycroft wanted was for his temporary flatmate to find out that he had been pining for him for years.

“Alright…?” Greg asked softly, startling Mycroft out of his thoughts.

He nodded. “Yes…” he murmured, watching as Greg carefully slid his shirt off his shoulders. “I assume Anthea brought over some clothes, yes…?”

Greg nodded, turning to the suitcase the young woman brought in hours ago. How she got into his flat, he didn’t want to know. He turned back to Mycroft and handed him a pair of black silk pyjamas. Before Mycroft got a chance to protest –though, strangely, he didn’t- he was helping him into the pyjama top.

“So…” Greg trailed off, before grinning at Mycroft, who was still standing in front of him. “You don’t need me to help you into your trousers, do you?” He chuckled when Mycroft’s face flushed.

“Obviously not,” Mycroft huffed, taking the pyjama bottoms and turning his back on Greg. He’s taken off his trousers in front of Greg dozens of times during his stay at the hospital; but this time…he couldn’t stop his embarrassment.

As if he felt the politician’s discomfort, Greg cleared his throat, turning his back as well. “I…well. I ought to leave now…” he mumbled, before saying softly, “Goodnight, Myc.”

When Greg started to move towards the door, he was suddenly held back by the younger man. “Wait,” he said.

Greg turned to look at Mycroft, his brows furrowed. “Yeah?”

The auburn haired man opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. He shook his head and just smiled at Greg, deciding to forgo whatever he was about to say. “Just…thank you, Gregory.”

The DI had a very strong urge to just lean in and kiss the man breathless, but thought better of it. Wouldn’t do to have him deported to Serbia just for kissing the man he fancied, right?

“Night, Mycroft.”

“Goodnight, Gregory.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 Mycroft knew that he wasn’t dreaming. He knew that he wasn’t dreaming, and that he was really waking up on _Gregory Lestrade’s_ _bed_ , wrapped in _his sheets_. But he still couldn’t help but think that it was a dream.

‘ _This cannot_ possibly _be real…’_ he thought to himself as he turned over on the bed and pressed his face to the pillow, breathing in its scent. It smelled faintly of coffee and cigarettes and just… _Gregory_. A faint blush had started to bloom on his cheeks as he continued to lie in bed, thinking that if he so much as moved, he would wake up from this wonderful dream.

The only thing that could’ve made this better was if Greg was in bed with him.

He was startled out of his thoughts when he caught the faint smell of butter pastries wafting through the air, his brows furrowing. Was Gregory _baking_?

He sat up a bit and glanced at the clock before turning his head toward the door. It was slightly ajar, which explained how the smell of pastries had wafted into the room from the kitchen.

A faint blush coloured Mycroft’s cheeks when he realised that there _must_ have been a reason for the door to be ajar like that. And there were two possibilities for that; either Gregory had been checking up on him or…he had been changing his clothes. Either possibility made Mycroft’s heart race and his cheeks heat.

Deciding that he had stayed in bed for far too long (it was already eleven thirty), he shuffled out of bed and into the sitting room. It felt weird wandering around the flat in broad daylight…and in his pyjamas, nonetheless.

He followed the scent into the kitchen, stopping dead in his tracks and mouth hanging open slightly at the sight he was met with.

Gregory Lestrade was standing at the breakfast counter, his back to Mycroft, in nothing but his _boxers and a t-shirt_ , _humming and dancing_. Well. If wiggling his hips about could be considered dancing. And yes, Mycroft was subjected to Greg’s customary work-humming during his stay at the hospital, but _never_ while he was only half clothed.

Mycroft stared sheepishly at the older man, unsure of what to do in this situation. On one hand, he _did_ quite enjoy watching Gregory’s little performance, but on the other hand he would’ve thought it rude to just stand there and stare.

So with a bit of hesitation, knowing that Gregory would most likely stop, he cleared his throat to alert the DI of his presence.

Mycroft would’ve laughed at how Greg jumped if he wasn’t so disappointed that he stopped. The politician noted the faint blush that had painted his dear DI’s cheeks, and it was endearing and attractive both at the same time.

“Morning, Myc…” Greg said sheepishly, bringing a hand up to scratch behind his neck, putting down the knife he was holding. “Sleep well…?”

“Very,” Mycroft said simply, “Um…I trust that the same did not happen to you…?”

The DI grinned and shrugged. “Was alright,” he said, “Not that comfortable, but it was fine. Beats sleeping at the office.”

The politician’s expression softened as he took in Greg’s appearance again, wondering how a middle-aged man in a t-shirt and boxers, his hair tousled and face smudged with flour, could look absolutely adorable. Then again, it _was_ Gregory.

He walked over to the island counter in the middle of the kitchen, sitting on one of the stools. He put his elbows on the flat surface as he propped his chin in his fist. “So…” he hummed, “What are you making?” He gestured toward the six slices of baguettes laid out on the wooden cutting board, the bottle of olive oil and the block of mozzarella next to the chopped tomatoes.

“Oh, this?” Greg said, looking down at the bread. “Brunch, I guess. What’d you think about bruschetta?”

“Sounds delicious,” Mycroft smiled. He looked behind Greg’s shoulder towards the oven, seeing the two _pain au chocolats_ baking in it. “You never told me you knew how to cook.”

“Well,” Greg shrugged as he brought his attention back to his cooking, drizzling a bit of olive oil on the bread, “Never thought you’d be interested enough for me to tell you.”

When Greg glanced up from his cooking, he saw Mycroft looking at him oddly. “What?”

“Nothing. It is just…” Mycroft paused a bit, twiddling with his thumbs for a moment, appearing like he's gathering his thoughts, “For the past two weeks that we have been in each other’s presence, I would’ve assumed that you knew of how much I enjoy your company, and that you knew that I am always interested in whatever you say…” he trailed off as he looked down at his hands, a faint blush on his cheeks, but not so prominent enough that Greg would’ve noticed.

Actually, Greg _did_ notice, and he just found it absolutely adorable. He had that urge to kiss Mycroft again, but he just pushed the urge away. He couldn’t stop the idiotic grin on his face from forming, though.

“I enjoy being with you as well, Myc,” he grinned broadly at the younger man. “And…well, I guess I never really thought about it like that. Thought I talked too much about myself. Was just really waiting for you to tell me something about you.”

“And I think that you’ve gathered from our time together that I do not really like talking about myself.”

“Yeah, thought as much,” he said, “But still. I wanna know stuff about you too, Myc.”

The blush on Mycroft’s face intensified, more than a bit flattered at the thought that Gregory, of all people, actually wanted to know more about _him_. The odd, boring Ice Man. Just as Mycroft was opening his mouth to answer Greg, his phone beeped.

“Ah…excuse me,” he mumbled apologetically, Greg just shrugging and bringing his attention back to the bruschetta.

Mycroft’s eyebrows quirked at the message, a bit of an embarrassed frown crossing his lips.

_Enjoying domesticity, brother dear? No worries, there are no cameras in the dear Detective Inspector’s flat. But I’ve got a lovely picture of you being smitten with said DI from one of the cameras_  outside _the flat_. _–Q_

_I am not smitten with him, Quentin. And what are you doing spying on me? –MH_

There was a bit of a pause before his younger brother texted back, Mycroft taking the time to watch Greg as he worked around the kitchen before he read the message from the youngest Holmes.

_I think you should give up trying to bullshit me, brother dear. I am no Sherlock. I can clearly recognise signs of attraction when I see it. –Q_

_Can we go back to the topic of why you are spying on me? –MH_

_Oh, right. Yes. I was merely checking up on you. Just like you had Sherlock check up on me. I nearly had him shot, by the way. –Q_

_Charming. And why are you ‘checking up on me’? –MH_

_It’s for the security systems. –Q_

Mycroft looked down at the message, his eyebrows quirked. He really hated it when his brothers were vague when they reported to him about anything. Looking up from his phone a bit, he smiled when he saw Greg taking out the _pain au chocolats_ from the oven, a satisfied grin on his face.

_You’ll have to be more specific than that, brother mine. –MH_

_All in due time, brother dear. –Q_


End file.
